


The Stableboy and the Centaur

by missazrael



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Centaurs, Game of Thrones-esque, Gen, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, but other ships get brought in too, jeanmarco is the main game here, more tags to be added later, reboot of The Emporium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has resigned himself to a life of drudgery, working as a stableboy at The Emporium, the premier monster show in the port city of Trost.  It's only when the Ringmaster brings in a centaur that things start to change for him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The stableboy's POV

It was pissing rain the day they brought in the centaur. Rain is pretty typical for this time of year; what wasn’t was how cold the rains had been. I’d heard the farmers worrying when I went into town, fretting and gossiping with each other, all torn up over whether they’d be able to get crops in the ground and if they’d take if the constant, icy rains didn’t let up. Makes me wonder why they’re trying to farm at all, when we’re a port city and do most of our business in trade when ships come in on the river, but it’s none of my concern. As long as they have shit to sell, I’ll buy it. Monsters have got to eat.

I’ve seen centaurs before. I can remember once, a long, long time ago, seeing wild centaurs in a field, galloping together, their long tails flowing out behind them and their hooves sounding like thunder in my ears. They’d scared me, with their strength and wildness, but then the man holding me had cradled me against his chest and told me not to be afraid. He’d said, in a voice low and comforting, that the centaurs didn’t want to hurt us and if I stayed quiet and left them alone, they might get used to me and let me touch their flanks. That had shut me up like a cork in the mouth, but the centaurs ran away. I’d almost cried, then, struck by the intense unfairness of it—I’d been _quiet_ , they were supposed to come and let me touch them!—but the man had laughed and swung me up on his shoulders, assuring me that we’d come back tomorrow and see if the wild creatures had returned.

I know now that the man in the memory had been my dad, and it’s one of the few memories I have of him. So yeah, it has centaurs in it, but it also has my dad, and even if I can’t remember his face anymore, I can still remember how it felt to be safe in his arms and the quiet rumble of his voice. My mom is easier; if I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still remember what she looked like, and her smell. I just can’t be sure if it’s really her I’m remembering, or some kind looking lady who came to see the shows at The Emporium. The only thing I know for sure is that the Ringmaster is not my father, and that we’re not related to each other in any way; he reminds me of that every day, and doesn’t ever need to say a word.

The rain sluices down, and the practice yard is a sucking quagmire of mud, making me inordinately happy to be at the door of the barn and not out there, and the centaur picks its way carefully through it, lifting its hooves as high as it can and setting them down slowly. It has its arms tied behind its back, its shoulders straining backwards and preventing it from hunching forward in the rain, and the man selling it leads it by a bridle designed for the monsters, one that gags its mouth and circles arounds its head. It’s taking mincing, hobbling steps, and I frown, wondering if the Ringmaster had been stupid enough to buy a lame centaur. When I squint my eyes, though, I can see that it’s wearing fetters around its ankles. There’s my answer; no horse can walk normally in those things, and I wonder how long the centaur has had to wear them. If it wears them too long and has to walk too far in them, it might lame itself, and my esteem for the man leading it drops. Anyone who knows horseflesh should be able to control it without resorting to fetters, especially one that seems as complacent as the centaur. It has its head bowed, trying to keep the rain out of its eyes or maybe just looking for good places to put its feet, and doesn’t seem too invested in trying to escape. When the owner stops to talk to the Ringmaster—final negotiations on price, I’m guessing, certain that the Ringmaster made them stop in the rain so he could try and work the price down a few gold pieces—the centaur stands sedately beside him, its head down, dark hair falling over its forehead and into its eyes. It shifts back and forth from foot to foot, but that could be from the mud in the yard, or maybe it’s just uncomfortable from being hobbled.

I watch as the Ringmaster nods, tightly, and passes a bag heavy with gold to the man, and he passes the Ringmaster the centaur’s reins. He slaps it once, on its horse shoulder, and it shies away, as far as it can go, its sodden tail flicking back and forth. I smile a little, recognizing that body language. If there’s one thing I know, it’s horses, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one watching who noticed the centaur shift its weight off one back hoof, like it was thinking about kicking the man and then changed its mind. There isn’t any love lost between the two of them, that’s for sure, and I quietly reassess the centaur. I’ll have to be careful around it and keep out of range of its hooves. The Ringmaster snaps a sharp retort to the man, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. I can’t hear what the Ringmaster is saying over the sound of the rain, but he’s bitched me out enough times to know that I don’t envy the centaur dealer.

The dealer leaves with his gold, the Ringmaster leads the centaur into the barn, and I scramble to throw the barn door open wide enough for the centaur to fit through. The Ringmaster doesn’t acknowledge me as he leads the centaur into the barn, but I don’t expect him to. He never pays attention to me if he doesn’t have to, which means I usually feel like half a ghost. Of course, if I was a ghost, he’d probably give more of a shit about me and put me in the performances. I’d actually have some _value_ around here.

Bitter, me? Never.

I wrestle the barn door closed against the rain, and tag along behind the Ringmaster and the centaur to the middle of the barn. The fire spirit rumbles quietly as I move past its stall, and the gorgon shifts, its scales making slithering sounds as it curls tighter around itself, but I ignore them. Hey, if the Ringmaster has the luxury of ignoring me whenever I wants, I get the luxury of ignoring the monsters sometimes. I know they’ve all been fed and are secure in their stalls, so whatever they want can wait.

The barn itself is huge, with a high, soaring ceiling and stalls neatly lining each side. The ceiling tapers off in one corner, above the fire spirit’s stall, and having my loft directly above its stall has saved me some frigid, shivering nights. A few of the monsters come to the doors of their stalls, looking out between the enchanted iron bars that hold them in, but most stay where they are, curled around themselves and uninterested in the new proceedings. The chimaera lurches to the walls of its stall as I move past, the way it almost always does when the Ringmaster enters the barn, and it rocks back on its haunches so it can watch the activities with its human-like eyes. I turn away, barely suppressing a shudder. I’m used to the monsters that belong to The Emporium—I’m around them every day, after all—but the chimaera and its human-like eyes and face still creep me out. 

“Kirschtein!” The Ringmaster’s voice cracks through the barn like his whip, and I scramble to his side to assist him, already bracing myself for a cuff on the head.

“Sir?”

The cuff doesn't come, amazingly; the Ringmaster tosses me the centaur’s reins instead, and I nearly fumble and drop them. “Clean it up and put it in the stall next to the fire spirit.” He strides out of the barn without another word, and the chimaera watches him go with those otherworldly blue eyes before slouching back down and retreating to the corner of its stall.

I gape after the Ringmaster, my mouth open, and it’s not until the fire spirit snickers that I realize how stupid I must look and close it. I shoot the fire spirit an irritated glance, and it grins at me, lifting both hands in the air and shrugging its broad shoulders. It’s in an upbeat mood today for some reason, even though it usually hates the rain, and its hair flickers and waves like candlelight, moving from drafts that no one else can feel. “Mind your own business,” I tell it, and it gives a sardonic bow before retreating back to the corner of its stall.

I’m amazed at this sudden, new responsibility. My day-to-day life around here mostly consists of mucking out stalls during the monster’s daily performances—nothing smells worse than satyr poop, coincidentally… _nothing_ —and making sure they’re fed and cared for. I leave the property once a week to buy their food, but I buy what the Ringmaster tells me to buy. I don’t interact with the monsters all that much, especially not one-on-one. Maybe the Ringmaster decided that since the centaur is mostly a horse, it’s different. Even he can’t argue that I don’t know horses; whenever he has business partners visiting, I’m always in charge of their horses, and I take pride in knowing the horses usually leave in better condition than they arrived. Merchants and curiosity dealers have no idea how to take care of horseflesh, it’s practically a fact.

I lead the centaur to the grooming station, and it follows sedately, doing its best to keep up on its mud-caked hooves. I wind its bridle around the hitching post and sneak a look at its face. It still has its head down, but it looks like whoever tied its arms knew what they were doing, and I’m pretty sure it won’t be able to get itself loose if I leave it here.

“Don’t go anywhere,” I tell it, using my sternest voice. It doesn’t work on any of the other monsters anymore, but this one is new, it doesn’t know any better yet. The centaur nods, its head still down, and I leave it at the hitching post to get some water and brushes.

The water tank is in the stall next to the fire spirit, on the opposite side of where the centaur will be staying, and while the tank is full, the water is cool to the touch. I run my hand back and forth in it, frowning; cool water isn’t good for horses, especially if it’s going to be all over their bodies, and with as muddy as the centaur is, there won’t be any getting around it. I sigh, facing the inevitable, and rap on the wall to the fire spirit’s stall. “Hey. Heat up the water.”

The fire spirit snorts on the other side of the wall, and its voice is glib and teasing when it answers. “You’re pretty enough already, Kirschtein, you don’t need another bath.”

“Dammit!” I should have known this wouldn’t be easy, and pound my fist against the wall. “It’s not for me!” I’ve gotten plenty good at washing with cold water, and the fire spirit knows it. “It’s for the centaur!”

The fire spirit makes a noise that sounds like a small, crackling flame, a noise I’ve learned to recognize as its laugher, and then the water in the trough starts to heat up. Before long, steam is wafting off the top. The fire spirit likes to give me shit for some reason, moreso than any of the other monsters, but it’s usually pretty cooperative. Eventually.

“Can I see it?” the fire spirit asks, once the water is warm all the way through, and I wince. I hate it when it sounds so human, so lost and alone, and it probably knows that. It’s probably turning up the charm to get what it wants.

“I’ll ask the Ringmaster.” I dip a bucket in the steaming water, filling it up and cursing myself for a soft touch. The Ringmaster never lets the monsters talk to him like this, he leaves all the dirty work of saying no to me. The fire spirit makes a soft sound, almost like a sigh, and I stand up and hurry away before it can request something else.

The centaur hasn’t moved while I was busy, simply standing and waiting for me to come back, although I see it shiver as I tote the bucket back across the barn. I need to get it clean and in its stall before it takes a chill and gets sick, and I dip a curry comb in the warm water and start at the monster’s horse shoulder, the one its former owner slapped, brushing carefully to get the mud and dirt out of its coat.

I’d thought the centaur’s horse coat was an ordinary brown, but as I brush it and the mud starts to fall away, I discover that it’s actually a dark dapple gray, its body covered with small white spots that spread out over its withers, flanks, and rump like a field of stars. It’s lovely, a pattern I’ve never seen in a centaur and only rarely in horses, and when I find a particularly elegant pattern of spots on the centaur’s hip, I run my fingers over it admiringly. I remember that my father had had a horse with a similar pattern in his herd, one that he’d bred himself and raised from a foal, a horse that followed him around like a big spotted puppy, and that horse had been his pride and joy. I can’t always remember much about my life, before The Emporium, but I can picture that horse, as clear as day, and hear my father’s laugh as it nosed at him, begging for a treat. But even more than the horse’s soft whickering and my father’s laughter, I can remember the sound of weeping when the soldiers came, the King’s Men, and took all the horse away, even the spotted one, and for just a moment, I forget myself and lean my forehead against the centaur’s side.

I realize my gaff when I hear the fire spirit laugh and then whistle loudly across the barn, and I straighten up abruptly, cursing my stupidity. The centaur could have started bucking and plunging while I was leaning on it, being foolish and remembering things that aren’t worth remembering, things that should just stay buried and hidden away, and it would have taken me completely by surprise.

The centaur is watching me, its head turned a little to the side. I can see its eyes for the first time, huge and dark, and though it’s watching me closely, it’s making no attempt to escape. It only shifts its weight back and forth from hoof to hoof, and I’m going to have to take those fetters off to clean its feet. Poor thing must be really uncomfortable with all that mud in its hooves.

I’ll get right to that, but first I need to deal with the fire spirit. I whirl around, brandishing a muddy, damp rag at it, my eyes narrowed tight with anger. “No one asked you, jackass!” The fire spirit laughs, but it turns into a hiss when I throw the rag at it. The rag splats on the floor several feet from the fire spirit’s stall, but it has a real fear of getting wet, and beats a hasty retreat. Good. Nosy asshole.

I turn my attention back to the centaur, who looks away when it realizes I’m watching its face. “Listen, you,” I start, and I’m too loud, my voice ringing off the walls of the barn and sounding weak when I want to sound authoritative. I stop, swallow, and try again, keeping my voice at a normal volume this time. Horses don’t do well when you yell at them, I should of all people should know that by now. “Listen, you… I’m going to take off your fetters so I can clean your hooves. If you try to kick me, you’ll be going in your stall without any more currying and no food, got it?

The centaur blinks, once, its eyelashes so long they skim the top of its cheeks, and then it nods.

For some reason, that nod strikes me as trustworthy, and I duck underneath it, taking the fetters off its front legs first. Caked mud breaks off around the iron, revealing a coat as black as midnight underneath, and I step aside to put the fetters away and get my hoof brush. The centaur takes the opportunity to stretch, leaning back and pushing its front legs out in front of it, making a low sound of relief when the joints in its legs pool It goes back to standing straight and still as soon as I return; whoever had this centaur before The Emporium trained it very well. I duck back under its belly—dark, with no stars, the dark coloration bleeding down onto its legs, I presume—and scoop up one hoof to clean it. Its hooves are filthy, and I’m sweating by the time I get the front ones clean. I can feel the centaur’s belly on my back, and its breathing deepens when I really get in there with my pick, and I think I hear a sigh of pleasure and relief when I work loose a particularly large, deeply embedded stone.

“That was bothering you, wasn’t it?” I ask it absentmindedly; it’s easy to forget, when I’m under its belly and working on its hooves, that I’m dealing with a monster here and not just another horse. The centaur surprises me when it rumbles something that sounds like garbled speech, the sound echoing through its belly and into my back. I finish what I’m doing and put its hoof down, all four of its feet clean now, and straighten up, my spine crackling as I rise.

“You can talk, can’t you?” The centaur only waits a beat before nodding its head. I feel a little silly; of course it can talk, it has a human-like half, and I’ve heard about centaurs speaking to humans before. I look over my shoulder, towards the rest of the barn; the other monsters have retreated for the night, hiding in the corners of their stalls, and the other thing watching is the chimaera’s snake tail, the reptilian head resting between two iron bars on its stall door. I’m used to that; the chimaera likes to watch everything that goes on in the barn, and as long as it’s not using its human-like face, I don’t mind. What exactly can a snake really see, after all?

“I’m going to take the bit out of your mouth,” I tell the centaur, and it blinks its dark eyes in surprise. “If you try to bite me, you’re going to regret it.” The centaur nods eagerly in understanding, and lowers its head. My hands shakes a little as I reach up near its mouth, and it takes longer than I’d like to get the bit-gag unclasped, but then it comes loose and falls into my hand.

The centaur straightens up, sighing, and moves its jaw back and forth, the joint popping audibly. I look down at the bit-gag in my hands and turn it over; it looks bigger in my hands than it did in the centaur’s mouth, and I wonder how long it had been wearing it. The centaur sighs again and licks its lips, then turns its head to look at me out of the corner of its eye. “Thank you,” it says quietly, its gaze flicking up to meet my eyes for a moment before it lowers its head again and looks back at the floor.

“You’re welcome,” I tell it, trying to forget how dark and sad its eyes had looked when they met mine. The monsters with the human-like faces are always the hardest to deal with, I think ruefully as I circle around behind it to clean off its back hooves. “Same deal here, except if you kick me now, the bit is going back in.”

“I know.” The centaur doesn’t kick once, even when I run a comb through its tail and have to tug through some of the snarls and knots.

I step back when I’m finished, putting my hands on the small of my back and cracking it, and admire my handiwork. The horse half of the centaur is clean and groomed, its coat shining and free from loose hair and dander, and the centaur is a pretty fine example of horseflesh. If not for the dirty, subdued human-like half rising from its shoulders, I’d think I was looking at a horse belonging to a lord or lady. Its a smaller horse, with fine-boned legs that look like they’d be graceful and fast, and its hooves, now that they’re clean, are delicate and a bright, gleaming black. Its coloration, with the dark gray turning to black on its belly and legs and the white stars spattered across its back, complete with a long, flowing tail as dark and shiny as a raven’s wing, is some of the prettiest I’ve ever seen on a horse.

The centaur is watching me again, but when I look up to its face, it turns away. I frown; most of the monsters I’ve known are dyed-in-the-wool assholes, always trying to get one over on me, and this kind of timidity and submission are worrisome. It makes me think of abused horses, the kind that shy away and show their teeth and have difficulty trusting. Horses like that require a gentle hand, someone patient who is willing to work with their problems…

I shake my head to clear it. It’s a centaur, not a horse, and it’s not my job to get the monster ready to be ridden. My current responsibility ends when it’s clean and put in its stall for the night, and then starts up again tomorrow morning when it’s time to feed it. I don’t need its life story, I don’t need to feel sorry for it, I don’t need to care about it beyond the absolute minimum that’s expected of me. I nod, reminding myself of exactly how much of a shit I’m supposed to give, and look at its human half. It’s just as dirty as the horse half had been, its skin caked with mud and grime, and I look at my bucket of water and the scum floating on the top. I’m going to need another one.

The water in the tank is still lukewarm, and I figure that’s good enough for the centaur. I don’t particularly want to talk to the fire spirit again tonight, especially since it probably won’t be inclined to be helpful twice in a row. I can hear it moving in its stall, pacing back and forth in the way that it does, and I catch a glimpse of bright, flickering flames as it strides past. Something has it agitated, and its hair must be more aflame than usual. Nothing I can do about it, and I fill up my bucket and bring it back to the centaur. I dip a brush in it as I form my plan of attack, and start vigorously scrubbing at the small of the centaur’s back, under its bound hands. I’ve managed to get a small patch of skin clean before the centaur’s hands spasm into fists and it clears its throat as it takes a step away.

“I can do this part myself,” it offers quietly, its head still down in an attitude of obedience, and I pause. The skin I’ve revealed looks red and angry, like I was scrubbing too hard.

“I’d have to untie your arms.”

The centaur nods. “You could put the fetters back on and hobble my feet, if you’re afraid I would try to get away.”

That’s _exactly_ what I’m worried about, and I don’t like that the centaur is the one to suggest it. I narrow my eyes and glare at it, and it looks away again. I’m about to refuse and get back to work, but then I notice the clean patch on its back again, and how raw and painful it looks. It reminds me of the last time I had someone scrub me down, and how my skin felt tight and aching for a week afterwards. I chide myself for going soft, for worrying so much about what the monsters want, but I leave the brush resting on the centaur’s horse back and go for the fetters. I shake the mud off them, not wanting to ruin all my hard work on the centaur’s legs, and snap them back into place.

The centaur’s skin is warm under my fingers as I untie its arms, and as soon as it’s free, it reaches above its head for a long, slow stretch, and I can hear the ones in its spine and shoulders crackle as they realign. “Thank you,” it breathes, and the relief and gratitude in its voice is almost cringeworthy. It stretches its arms out wide on either side, then picks up the brush I left on its back and starts scrubbing.

While the centaur keeps itself busy washing, I get its stall set up. The stall is pleasantly warm inside, thanks to the anxious fire spirit next door, and I lay down some straw for bedding. I fill the trough with water and leave a load of hay for it to snack on if it gets hungry, and find it a horse blanket for its lower half. Almost as an afterthought, I grab a second blanket, one that’s smaller and softer, in case the centaur wants something to put over its shoulders.

When I get back to the grooming station, horse blanket in my arms, I start to ask the centaur if it’s done yet, but then I catch sight of the monster and my jaw snaps closed. It’s gotten itself clean, and its human-like half is just as dappled and spotty as its horse half. I take a step back, my heart leaping to my throat and fear spiking through me, thoughts of the last plague running riot in my mind. The fear passes, though, when I get a better look and realize that the centaur isn’t covered in open, weeping sores but freckles, its human-like half speckled in the coloration inverse of its horse half. The effect, once I’m over my shock , is striking, and I’m starting to understand why the Ringmaster paid so much for this particular centaur.

It turns to face me, looking more relaxed than ever before, and holds its hands out in front of it, wrists together. “Thank you. I’m done now.”

I toss the horse blanket over its haunches, and it sighs as the fabric settles over it. It reaches down to clasp the blanket over its horse chest, then holds its hands out again, waiting patiently for me to retie them. I loop the ropes around loosely, noticing how the skin of its wrists is bruised and chafed, and then unwind its reins from the hitching post. It left its bridle on its head while it was washing, and its hair is standing out in funny little spikes and whirls, where it must have tried to wash around the straps. Its hair is the same color as its tail, dark and shining, trying hard to fall into a natural part around its face, and its features are gentle and guileless. Most of the monsters with human faces aren’t particularly attractive, by human standards, and if it wasn’t blasphemy to say so, I’d think that the centaur is rather handsome.

I lead it to its stall, the centaur hobbling gamely behind him, and it looks around curiously as we walk through the barn, but doesn’t comment. The other monsters lost interest in it long ago, and have retired to the corners of their stalls; all the centaur can see of them are the cold iron bars that are in the doors of every stall. It walks into its stall willingly enough, and I take off its fetters before I untie its hands. Finally, I gesture for it to lower its head, and when it does, I strip off the bridle.

I’m a little embarrassed when I see the lines of dirt on the centaur’s freckled cheeks, where it couldn’t clean under the bridle, but I figure it’ll take care of that once I’m gone. The lines actually just underscore its high cheekbones, and don’t detract a whole lot from its overall good looks. “Your food is there, water there, and if you need another blanket, it’s hanging here.” The centaur nods solemnly in understanding, and meets my eyes for just a moment before casting them down again. 

“Thank you.”

I nod and then leave it to its rest after locking its stall behind me. I climb to my loft, tired and worn out, and settle down on my own bed of straw, directly above the fire spirit’s stall, where it’s the warmest. I lay on my back, listening to the monsters below me settle in for the night and watching my breath plume like smoke as I exhale, and the last thing I think about before I drift off to sleep is the deep, rich brown of the centaur’s eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The centaur's POV

It could be worse.

It could be a lot worse, and I know it could. The Ringmaster is about what I expect, from the little I interacted with him, although I’m surprised at how quietly the night passes. When the stableboy leaves, I splash some water on my face and through my hair, getting the last of the dirt off me, and the water still has a faint warmth to it. I pace my stall then, investigating. It’s not as luxurious as my last one, but I like that. Velvets and satins and lace are overrated, and the simple, utilitarian aspects of the stall are reassuring. Maybe I’ve landed somewhere different. Maybe this place will be better.

I pull the second blanket off the feeding tray where the stableboy had draped it, and wrap it around my shoulders. The blanket is softer than I thought it would be, and warmer, and I can’t help smiling a little. The stableboy had tried so hard to be like the Ringmaster, trying to emulate the older man’s coldness and indifference, but he’d failed. The kid cared, whether he realized it or not, and I settle down in a corner of the stall, wrapped in two warm blankets, and doze off almost immediately.

I wake to the sounds of the fire spirit in the stall next door. It’s early, but the light has changed in the barn, the faint, fragile light of dawn starting to shine through the darkness. I realize what the fire spirit is doing after listening for a moment, and I rise to my feet and turn to face the back of my stall, putting my hands against the splintery wood. Yes… I can feel the first prickles of heat from the rising sun through the wall, and I lean my forehead against the wood and close my eyes, listening to the fire spirit pray.

When he finishes his devotions, I gently tap the wall separating us. “Thank you,” I tell him quietly.

He snorts in response, but the sound is good natured. “For what?”

“For the warm water last night.”

He scoffs, but I can tell he’s pleased. “It wasn’t anything.”

“It was something to me.” He’d made me feel better in a new, frightening place.

“You’re welcome, then.” He doesn’t offer his name, and I don’t ask. Names have power, and I wouldn’t have told him mine even if he had been rude enough to ask. I’ve never known a fire spirit before, but I’ve heard stories about elementals, and trust isn’t something he’s going to get easily. Gratitude, certainly, but not trust. Part of all my problems is that I trust too easily, and I need to be more careful. I should know, by now, that the world doesn’t mean anything good for me, but still, trust comes too easily.

The stableboy clambers downstairs then, and I lay down in the back of my stall, listening to the morning routine commence. It sounds like the other captives pay him no mind, although I do hear two cheerful voices asking him about more food and then turning sour when he gruffly denies them. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling; it seems the stableboy isn’t a morning person. 

He doesn’t come to my stall until last, which I expected. It’s clear, just from listening, that he has a schedule to follow, things that he has to do and an order in which to do them, and I’m the newest thing on the list. 

He looks guilty when he finally looks into my stall, and I stand up to greet him. He looks different in the soft, growing morning light; he’s lean and lanky, his body a collection of awkward lines and angles, a combination of half-starved and recent growth spurt, and everything about him is long. The fingers he wraps around the iron bars in my stall door are long, his face is long, the shaggy light brown bangs hanging in his eyes are long. He’s obviously still growing, some parts of his body surging to adulthood before the others and then waiting while they catch up, and the effect is a jumbled, awkward form. There’s nothing jumbled or disjointed about his eyes, though. I’d thought they were brown last night, but in the morning light they look amber, bright and golden and worried as he looks me over, like he expected me to disappear during the night.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well last night?”

The stableboy blinks, startled, and it’s clear that none of the other captives ask after him. He doesn’t answer, but points to the wall my stall shares with the fire spirit’s. “If you get cold during the night, you should sleep on that side of the stall.”

I nod. I’d figured that out right away, of course, but there’s nothing to be gained by pointing that out. “Thank you. I’ll remember that.”

The stableboy watches me a moment longer, his gaze pensive, and I wait for whatever question he clearly wants to ask. He even gets as far as opening his mouth before he’s interrupted by a strident, trumpeting voice, one I haven’t heard before, raised loud in complaint, and he rolls his eyes and stomps off. The fire spirit asks him if he’s asked the Ringmaster if he could see it yet as the stableboy runs past, but he doesn’t get his answer.

The fire spirit sighs huffily, and I lean against the wall between our stalls again. “Who was that?”

“You mean who called the boy?” He answers right away, and I wonder if he’s been lonely, all by himself on this side of the barn. I wonder if elementals are herd creatures.

“Yes.”

“That was the gorgon.” I hear him shift on the other side of the wall, and the boards against my shoulder heat up; he must be leaning against it too. “She complains a lot.”

I blink in surprise, and stomp one of my back hooves instinctually. “They keep creatures of the night here?” 

“You know, some would call _me_ a creature of the night.” The fire spirit doesn’t sound angry or reproachful, only like he’s pointing out a fact, and I feel my face flush a little.

“My apologies.”

“Eh.” I catch a glimpse of flashing light on the other side of the stall, and realize that he’s waved his hand dismissively. “We’re all slaves here, pony boy; it doesn’t matter if we’re pretty or not.” His voice hardens a little. “I’d even call the gorgon lucky, in a way; she works a lot less than the rest of us.”

My hearts sink, both of them, and I start to ask him what he means by that, even though I’m fairly certain I already know, but the barn door bangs open before I can. Although the temperature in the barn doesn’t change, it feels like a chill runs through the entire barn, and the fire spirit whispers “Stand front, eyes down,” before he moves and his warmth goes with him.

I do as he says, moving to the front of my stall, and I watch as the Ringmaster stalks to the center of the barn. He pushes past the stableboy, a short man wearing a long, swirling cloak, and moves from stall to stall, stopping to peer inside with cold, dead eyes. He lingers at one stall, the largest stall, and the creature inside is cloaked in shadows. All I can tell is that it’s something big, huge and hulking that rocks back when the man approaches, and I wonder who lives there, and why he or she moves away from the Ringmaster.

He comes to my stall last, and looks me up and down. I keep my head lowered, standing demure and unthreatening, like the fire spirit told me and like I know weak humans like the Ringmaster enjoy. He must like what he sees, because he nods once.

“Kirschtein!”

“Sir!” The stableboy scrambles to the man’s side, and I feel a sudden, unexpected surge of distaste for the man. He’s weak, someone who only feels tall when he has power over someone else, and we’re all puppets to him, simply things to dance for his amusement and his profit margins. If he is powerful enough to bind elementals, then he must know that names have power, and he uses the stableboy’s name, loud and aggressive, where a barn full of magical prisoners can hear it. He must know the danger that puts the boy in, but he must not care.

He gestures at me. “What do you think?”

“… sir?” The stableboy—Kirschtein—sounds confused, and the Ringmaster shoots a withering look in his direction.

“Of the beast, Kirschtein. Do try to keep up.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy’s voice rises in almost imperceptible excitement, and he stands a little straighter as he reports. “It’s a fine example of horseflesh, sir. Its legs are good and it is probably quite fast. The pattern of its coat is high quality and unusual, which makes it valuable.”

How kind; he thinks I’m pretty. He’s wrong about me being fast, though. I’m faster than a horse, but that doesn’t mean much. As centaurs go, I’m slower than dirt. I notice that he refers to me as an _it_ , and my head hangs a little lower. I’d thought that, perhaps, I’d have a friend here, but to the stableboy, I’m just another monster in a cage.

The Ringmaster waves a hand at the kid, and his mouth snaps shut. “You tell me things I already know, and you bore me. Did it behave itself last night?”

I’m right here in front of you. I could answer that question myself.

“Yes, sir. It didn’t fight me at all, and spent a quiet night in its stall.”

The Ringmaster nods, apparently pleased by what he’s heard, and steps closer to the door of my stall. I shift back and forth, watching him through my eyelashes, and make an effort to compose my face into a smooth, unreadable mask. It won’t do me any good to let any emotion show here. “I paid a lot of money for you,” the Ringmaster announces, “and I expect that my investment won’t be in vain. Nod if you understand.”

I nod. I understand. I understand plenty, especially after talking with the fire spirit, and I know exactly why he bought me.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” The Ringmaster glances derisively at the stableboy, and turns to leave. I hear the fire spirit make a soft, wounded sound, something lonely and heartbroken and lost, and the stableboy perks back to attention.

“S-sir?”

The Ringmaster pauses, looking over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. “What?”

I can see the stableboy’s throat work as he swallows, and his hands clench and unclench at his sides in nervousness. “The fire spirit wants to know if it can see it.” One of the man’s eyebrows twitches, and the boy rushes on, looking at the floor. “It helped me last night and warmed some water to clean the centaur. You can’t wash a horse with cold water, sir, it’s bad for their health, and I didn’t have to burn any wood because the fire spirit did it all for me.”

The man still doesn’t respond, and the boy looks up after a moment. The Ringmaster is watching him with a flat, almost bored expression, and he lets the boy squirm a little longer before responding, turning to look at the fire spirit. “If you perform well this afternoon and impress me, I’ll allow you one minute with it this afternoon.”

He sweeps out of the barn then, and the fire spirit makes a soft, contented sound. I feel his heat move away from the door, and while I don’t know what _it_ is, I’m happy for him. Then the brazen, strident voice starts up again, yelling about special treatment, and the stableboy rolls his eyes and hurries away. I can’t help myself, and cough quietly to hide my laughter.

~*~

When the afternoon’s show starts, I watch with interest as the stableboy leads the other prisoners out of their stalls. The first to go out to the stage, which I figure out is attached to the barn, or only a short walk away, are a satyr and an anthousai, both young and graceful. The satyr has the beguiling, renegade charm of his kind, and the anthousai practically floats above the ground, leaving flower petals behind her as she walks. We can hear the audience cheer and clap from our stalls, so whatever they’re doing, it must be popular. I wonder if I’ll ever get a chance to see the show, and I’m about to ask the fire spirit if everyone performs when the stableboy comes back and opens another stall, leading out the gorgon.

I’ve never seen a gorgon before, and the first thing I notice is the sheet of metal she wears across her face, hiding her eyes and the top half of her face from view. While the satyr and anthousai were all light and grace, floating and friendly and nonthreatening, the gorgon is all menace, her scales sliding over each other with a sound like metal against bone, her hair rising around her head in a frightening, hissing mass. As she slouches past my stall, I instinctually retreat, my hooves beating a rough tattoo on the floor.

“She’s not so bad,” the fire spirit speaks up, once they’re gone.

“No?” I can’t help shivering, the skin on my lower half twitching like I’m suddenly covered in flies. 

“No. She looks pretty nasty, and if she could get that thing off her face, she’d fuck you up, but she’s all right. A little rough around the edges, but who wouldn’t be if they had metal bolted to their skull?”

“It’s _bolted_ down?” That’s even more horrifying than the gorgon’s scales, and I shudder, crossing my arms over my chest and rubbing them against my biceps.

The fire spirit laughs humorlessly. “You might not have noticed, pony boy, but the Ringmaster isn’t exactly a great guy.” 

I want to ask more, but the stableboy comes back then, hustling the noisy, excited satyr and anthousai back to their stall before coming and opening mine.

“Come on,” he says brusquely. “Let’s go.”

I blink at him. “What?”

“Let’s go. You’re up next.”

I start to protest— _but I don’t know what to do_ —but the stableboy has the door open and is waiting impatiently, his amber eyes crackling with irritation, and I have no choice but to follow.

He waits with me in the shadows on the outskirts of the ring, and I watch as the gorgon slouches around the ring while the people who came to watch us all gasp and clutch at their throats. I see more than one woman cover her child’s eyes, and I roll mine.

At the end of her performance, the gorgon moves past us, and I get a closer look at her. Rather than being more frightening up close, I notice things about her that I couldn’t see from across the barn: several of the snakes in her hair hang near her shoulders, their eyes cloudy and ill-looking; the metal mask is, as the fire spirit said, bolted to her face with cold steel, and I wince to think about how much that must hurt, even know; she has freckles, just like mine, creeping out from under the mask on her cheeks, and scattered across her bare shoulders. It’s the freckles, more than anything else, that get to me, and I reach out as she passes and lightly touch her shoulder.

She doesn’t like that, whirling around as her hair comes to life, hissing and spitting, and the stableboy shoves her forward before she can attack, smacking me on the rump as they wrestle past.

And then it’s my turn in the ring.

I inch out, moving slowly into the light. The Ringmaster stands at the very center of the ring, clad in one of his swirling capes and holding a whip in one hand, and when I don’t approach fast enough for him, he cracks the whip at my feet. I snort, unable to help my reaction, and burst forward into the ring, galloping in a circle around it once, then twice, before he cracks the whip again in front of me and I freeze.

I have no idea what he wants.

The whip explodes near my front hooves, and I jolt backwards, rising up onto my hind legs. Quick as lightning, the whip snaps out and tickles at my exposed belly, and I nearly overbalance and fall backwards, throwing my arms out wide to keep from falling. The Ringmaster must like that, because while the whip cracks keep coming, they don’t touch me anymore, and when he starts whipping behind my back hooves, I start a slow, painstaking walk around the ring. Distantly, I realize that the crowd has gone quiet, that they’re watching us, that they’re watching _me_ , and I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or cry.

The Ringmaster reaches under his cloak and conjures up a glittering silver ball. He throws it at me, an easy lob, and I catch it between my hands, coming down onto all four feet. I tilt my head, looking at him in confusion, and he lashes out again, the whip moving too fast to see. Fire races across the back of my hand and I drop the ball, shaking my hand to try and soothe the burn across the back, and the Ringmaster points to the ball.

I must not understand fast enough, because the whip sings above my head, and I wince and duck. Hesitantly, I put one hoof on the ball, quietly praying that I’m right. I must be, because the whip lashes out again, in the exact same place.

I can’t do this. I can’t balance on a ball with two of my hooves. I’ve never practiced this, and if I try it I’m going to fall, but if I don’t, I’m going to be whipped. I snort, shaking my head even as I lift my second hoof and put it next to the first, the ball compressing under my weight, and I realize I’m looking to the side of the ring out of the corner of my eyes, hoping to see the stableboy, my only friend here.

I see a shadow that might be him, but then the ball suddenly balloons under my hooves, doubling and tripling in size, pushing me back, and I panic. I whinny in fear, rearing back and lashing at the air with my front hooves, then I come down on all four feet and whirl, running once around the ring and away from the ball before pivoting and galloping towards my stall. It isn’t much of a safe haven, but it’s the only one I know, and the stableboy has to jump aside as I run past him.

I catch a glimpse of the fire spirit’s startled face as I come charging back into the barn, making a beeline for my stall. Thankfully, the door is still open and I crash inside, cringing in the far corner and wrapping my arms tight around myself.

“You okay?” the fire spirit asks, but the stableboy is hot on my heels, and he throws open the fire spirit’s door and hustles him and the other monster, the one I haven’t seen, the big one, out to the ring. I huddle in my stall, burning with shame and embarrassment, and don’t want to look up when the stableboy comes back a few moments later.

I expect him to shout, to be angry with me, so when he speaks and his voice is quiet and gentle, that gets my attention more effectively than any shouting ever could. “Hey. I’m going to come in now, okay? I have something for your hand, so it stops hurting and doesn’t get infected, all right?”

He’s asking. He’s asking, not demanding, not just sauntering in and doing whatever he likes to me. I don’t answer, at a loss for words, but I can feel myself relax a little. He must notice, because he continues. “I’m opening the door now. Just me, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Yeah, he’s half horse himself, he knows what you’re going through!” I don’t recognize the voice that yells that, but I assume it’s the satyr, and I whicker softly. The stableboy doesn’t look like a horse, what idiocy, and I dare to look up.

The stableboy is in my stall, looking at me with his bright amber eyes, gone soft around the edges with a kindness I doubt he knows is there, and his mouth quirks in a little half smile as he holds his hand out. “Can I see? I have a salve and bandage for that, if he hit you.”

I shift my weight back and forth, unsure if this is a trick or not, but the stableboy has been honest with me before, and I wordlessly offer him my hand. His fingers are warm against mine when he takes it, and he grimaces when he sees the brand across the back of it. He starts working the salve into it, the cooling, numbing effect working almost immediately, and I sigh noisily.

I shouldn’t trust him. He’s a human, and humans have brought me nothing but pain and misery. But… but this one is different, somehow. He’s not like the other ones. He’s not like the Ringmaster.

“I didn’t know what he wanted me to do,” I confess to him, as though that weren’t glaringly obvious the moment I stepped into the ring. “If he had just _told_ me, I would have done it.”

“The Ringmaster doesn’t speak when he’s in the ring,” the stableboy explains, satisfied with the salve on my hand as he starts to wind a bandage around it. “He only uses his whip and hand gestures.”

“He never told me what those meant.” The stableboy looks up at that, his eyebrows rising, and I try to fight down the anxiety I can feel rising in my chests. I don’t want to be sold again, I don’t want to have to go somewhere else all over again, I don’t want to end up somewhere even worse than this. And it can get worse, I know. I’ve heard the stories about how much worse it can get.

“Look, you’re new, I don’t even know why he had you out there. I’m sure he’ll work with you and figure out a routine. He did that with al the other monsters.” The stableboy is done wrapping my hand and lets it go, but I take a step forward, reaching out and clutching at his hand, squeezing it between both of mine. I’ll even ignore that he called me and all the other slaves monsters; I just don’t want to be sold again.

“Are you sure? He’s not going to kick me out?”

The stableboy blinks, and I wonder if anyone else has ever asked him that before. “No, why would he? He paid a lot of money for you, and he’ll want to make his investment back.”

Of course. His investment. I’m his slave, but he paid a lot to buy me, and he won’t want that money to go to waste. I breathe out in a sigh, stupidly glad that I’m still worth enough to assure my place here, and I can feel my muscles slowly unclench. “Okay.” I squeeze the stableboy’s hand, then drop it before I get a little too fond of his fingers wrapped in mine. “Thank you… Kirschtein?”

It’s audacious, unspeakably bold for me to use his name, but the stableboy just shakes his head. “You can call me Jean, if you want. Just don’t do it in front of the Ringmaster.”

I almost smile at him then, almost thank him, but the barn door crashes open behind him, and the moment shatters. The stableboy—Jean, the sound soft and rolling on the end, the final syllable soft—scrambles out of my stall and shuts the door behind him, standing at attention next to my door. The Ringmaster struts into the barn, the fire spirit following. For the first time, I get a good look at my neighbor, and I’m surprised by how human he looks. He could almost pass for a tall, burly young man, except for the way his hair is made of soft, licking flames, almost like candlelight, and how his eyes are made of fire, burning like embers in his pale face. He nods at me as he walks into his stall, and I nod back. I look to the center of the barn then, to the only other slave that I haven’t seen yet, and I nearly panic and rear again.

How did they get a chimaera? What kind of dark magician _is_ the Ringmaster?

The chimaera slouches to its stall, the Ringmaster ignoring it completely as he comes to stand before mine. He crosses his hands behind his back and just glowers, and I hang my head contritely. This dance, at least, I know how to do. The penitent slave is an act I perfected long ago.

“I should have expected as much,” the Ringmaster finally tells me, and his voice is the coldest I’ve ever heard. “Your kind is only good for one thing.” I flinch at that, but nod. I know that he wants agreement, and I won’t argue with him. “If you expect to stay, you’ll have to earn your keep.”

He whirls on his heel then. “Kirschtein!”

Jean jumps, as startled as I am by the sudden change in mood. “Sir!”

“Teach this thing something appropriate. Make a show with it. You have one week.”

I can’t help the relief that runs through me at that. I’m not being sold. I can stay.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jean nod. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Good. See that it happens.” The Ringmaster turns to walk away, but then the fire spirit clears its throat pointedly. I look to the wall we share, and see that his light is up near the front, near the bars. He’s looking out at the Ringmaster, and I remember what I overheard this morning. Something about seeing ‘it’ for one minute. I take a step closer to the stall door, wondering what ‘it’ might be.

The Ringmaster looks over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. I think, for a moment, that he’s going to ignore the request and keep going, but then he reaches into his cloak and pulls out a crystal sphere. I tilt my head, curious, as he rolls it back and forth over his fingertips, and when he holds it still I get my first good look. The crystal is dark, but the darkness inside it is something living, something that rolls and shifts around itself, moving shades of black on black, a blackness so deep that it almost looks wrong, like someone cut a hole in reality to reveal the nothingness on the other side. I watch, mesmerized, as distant stars bloom inside the sphere, stars and galaxies and distant, indescribable clouds, all the vastness of the universe and all the mystery of the night sky contained across the fingertips of a man. And from all that swirling chaos, from all the void, a pair of eyes rise up, knitting together from nothingness, shadowed, dark green eyes that look at nothing except the fire spirit, that meet the fire spirit’s flickering golden eyes and flare to bright, dazzling life.

I gasp then and step back, turning my face away once I understand what I’m looking at. I can hear the fire spirit next door, can hear the flames of his hair crackling as they grow higher, can feel the deep, heavy weight of magic older than time swirl through the barn, and I wonder crazily how the Ringmaster learned to control that, how he could make both a chimaera and keep that crystal so close to himself without going mad.

I swear I hear a crack when it ends, and I glance up in time to see the Ringmaster make the sphere dance across his fingertips, the eyes within it sinking into the chaos again, and then it disappears into his cloak. The fire spirit moans, the sound filled with inexplicable longing, and I hear a thump as he collapses to the floor of his stall.

“One week, Kirschtein,” the Ringmaster tells Jean as he strides past, the sound of his boot heels impossibly loud in the abrupt, almost painful silence, and then he’s out of the barn and we’re alone again.

I kneel down, leaning against the wall I share with the fire spirit, and I can feel his heat on the other side. I rest my head where I think his might be, and whisper “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a very specific reason the Ringmaster only uses hand gestures and his whip when he's in the ring.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is the reboot of The Emporium. This chapter didn't change a whole lot, but later ones are pretty different. If you have any comments or opinions, please don't hesitate to let me know!


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